Monday, July 08, 2013

Character/Pairing: Just the Hunter and the Rogue again. Takes place in the months leading up to the Cataclysm expansion.

Rating: Pretty much good for everybody, this one.

Summary: Patch 4.0.1 is imminent, but several months previously...

A chance to heal, and an opportunity to reflect on what has gone before, or what might yet be...Disclaimer: All these people live in a computer game owned by
Activision and Blizzard. NPC names are specific to the Wrath expansion.
The one I play is mine in my mind only.

==

Again, thanks in droves to everyone who has encouraged me to get this far without collapsing in a spent emotional heap. A hat tip to M, whose fingerprints are all over this, and for that I will continue never to be quite grateful enough.

==

The Big Sky.

For a long time,
everything is white.

Definition forms,
familiarity recognised: hazy blue sky, loch green, the sound of
gentle waves, lapping against the jetty, water against wood. Toes
dip, feet immersed: sharp cold against warm skin, the swish of a line
as it flies back and then forward, the plop as the lure impacts and
the hook sinks. His voice: constant care and patience, love and
reassurance.

Patience, lassie. The
fish will come. Give them time.

Music drifts, across
the Valley, pipe and accordion intertwined: the song of the season,
practice for the Festival. Grilling meat, chopping wood, playing
children; the flap of the banners unfurled across the Stoutlager Inn.
Summer breeze and green trees, pinecones and the smell of
Swifthistle. Peacebloom seeds drifting lazily on air currents, fuzzy
annoyances catching in her hair. Unbraided coarseness, unconstrained
limbs, the sun on her face and the promise of grilled Frenzy with the
Beer Basted Boar Ribs.

His voice is concerned,
suddenly distant.

Can you hear me?

A darkness is spreading
across the lake, insidious anger radiating from a single point,
rapidly and inescapably consuming. The water turns cold, freezing
without warning, and she can't move, the scream in her mouth
swallowed by overwhelming feeling, life draining away through the
soles of her feet --

'Aye, Defile's really
nasty -- but you see, she's fine now.'

P's eyes flutter open.
She's not at home, but in the Citadel. Icecrown. The final push. It
takes too long to grasp she's horizontal, that this time she didn't
walk away. The Dwarven Priest standing over her smiles, removing the
special elemental wraps from her feet, though there's still no
feeling beneath her knees. Events shift, the chronology in her head
confused. The platform had fallen away, before the Valk'yr came.
She'd panicked and not moved fast enough when the Lich King cast his
magic, despite the shouted warning. They'd faced him with Fordring,
and he'd pushed them all to the limit...

'Arthas?'

'Don't you worry about
him. You get some rest, you deserve it.'

The past finally
settles back into place. Terenas Menethil had resurrected her. Bolvar
was still alive, after a fashion. There are tears, relief this time
as a hand slips silently over hers, familiar feeling to help her
relax, breathe easily. Randall sits on the edge of the camp-bed, face
covered in blood she knows isn't his own, and she doesn't want to
ask. She is too tired, too cold, and yearns for the warmth of the
Loch's shore to lose herself, warm grass to surround her.

All that's missing is
the memory of a kill: her body had failed before their enemy had
fallen.

'He's dead?'

Randall smiles: there
is no satisfaction in his response.

'We're done here.'

==

This is her home. There
was nowhere else she loved as much.

Three months have passed
in bliss: nothing seemed painful in the comfort of the midsummer sun.
She lies in the grass staring at clouds, working out what they best
represented. That cloud looks like Kalimdor. This one is a Crag Boar.
The largest was a Crocolisk but quick, it's changing to a Threshadon.
Blues shift and deepen as afternoon stretches, purples and reds in
late evening, moon-touched black at midnight to white brilliance at
sunrise, the day begun anew. The undying constants of life, rising
and falling, the backdrop of her existence.

Her nightmares are
never remembered, fleeting phantoms of the depravity she has left
behind, the past she cannot change. The sky is her constant, a way to
lose time and cohesion, becoming a part again with the ground.
Fingers dig into the soil, mud under nails, skin and dirt once
indivisible and now separate. She works at the Inn and sleeps with
the Loch under beguiling skies, and slowly the world heals her
torment, makes everything solid and safe again.

The change in warmth
wakes her, as the sun finally dips behind the trees. She'd abandoned
the rod and line hours ago, the Frenzy refusing to bite, and instead
had just laid down where she'd stopped. The earth is lush in summer,
a world away from the permanent cold: just returned and not enough
done, the Dwarf wonders why she would ever choose to leave. Last
time, her best friend had enticed her away with promises of glory,
and she had been right. They had won again, but at the most terrible
of costs.

It would take something
pretty spectacular to even tempt her from home this time around.

There is the familiar
swish, then plop, followed shortly afterwards by what she knows is
the reeling in of a successful catch, squirming fish in shallow
water. Someone else was by the shore. She opens one eye, squinting
through the sunlight as she tries to make out the average-heighted
shape down by the fringe of the Loch. It appears to be having trouble
removing the hook from the wriggling Frenzy's mouth.

For a rogue, his grasp
of manual dexterity was sometimes suboptimal.

Crais is still
struggling when she reaches him, forcing her to come and take the
fish out of by now slimy hands. He never had such difficulty in
battle, why should these situations be any different? The Frenzy is a
good size, but not enough for an Inn full of hungry patrons. She
stares at her friend out of uniform, impeccably attired for a fishing
trip, and fails to suppress a smile. He'd look good in a formal
Dangui, without effort. Some people were just born lucky.

'We'll need as many as
we can catch. Your father told me you had no patience.'

It is, it appears, past
the stage where they formally greet each other. Only Randall and she
are closer, a realisation that amazes her. When exactly did this
happen?

'My Pa is right. I'd
rather do nothing. The fish surface late afternoon, I just chose not
to exploit that advantage.'

The Dwarf registers he
is staring at her and it takes a second to grasp why: he's never seen
her in a dress before. It's not a particularly flattering smock, if
truth be told, but looking good for anyone was not on her list of
priorities when she woke up that day. She is dirty and unkempt and
happier than she's been for months, so he will simply have to cope,
which he appears to be doing with increasing confidence. As she
places the now dead fish in the catch basket, Crais bends to wash his
hands, turning to her as he does.

'You were right, this
place is stunning. Far better views than Elwynn.'

'I assume you weren't
simply passing and decided to drop in?'

'I've never been here.
It seemed like a good idea to visit.'

Crais rebaits and casts out into the now teeming water in front of them. He doesn't talk, or
even try to engage her further, and the Dwarf wonders at the
motivation. This isn't just sudden, it is unexpected.

If the Frenzy kept
biting there would be plenty of fish not only tonight, but tomorrow
as well. Maybe they should plan ahead and exploit the advantage, as a
team.

She picks up her own
rod and loads the hook with Nightcrawlers.

==

The Inn is busy for a
Tuesday, patrons spilling out onto the road outside, talk oddly
downbeat for the time of year. All eyes have turned north, to the
Highlands, where reports of cult activity have increased
significantly in recent weeks. A gryphon was shot down the previous
day and there are rumours of an impenetrable barrier that has sprung
up north of the Ogre Mound. Business, as a result is, up: the Dwarves
need to plan and that inevitably is fixed over food and ale. P has
been serving all day, clearing tables and preparing meals, and knows
she'll have little time for a break as the evening wears on.

Seizing the moment, she
takes a bottle of Moonberry Juice from behind the bar and climbs up
to the roof of the Inn to watch the sunset: the best view across any
zone in three continents. She sits, and for the first time since
Shadowmoon grasps that there is something inside that has yet to
heal.

'He told me you'd be
here.'

Crais appears almost on
cue, all in black, the outfit doing everything to flatter but little
to deceive, choosing to sit opposite on a stone promontory. He's been
strictly business today, deep in conversation with the village elders
for several hours. His official motivation, on SI:7's behalf, isn't
unexpected. Stormwind too has a Cultist problem, the same group
moving in the north, and there's a desire to gather intelligence. His
easy charm has worked magic on everyone in Thelsamar, including her
father. You son of a trogg, Pa, I know you sent him up here.

'Have you got what you
came for?'

'I have enough to be
concerned. The Highlands may be the least of my problems.'

His actions are
anything but selfish: she knows once you join SI:7 you never leave.
He may choose to fight in a five but his loyalty remains united to
the Crown, the Alliance cause. He will have been sent here for a
reason, but...

'Is that really why you're here?'

Something softens as
his façade falters, a point subtly redirected.

'I made a promise to
Mirrie.'

The blood is rushing in
her ears: she's back in the snow, feet frozen and heart incapable.
They are in Icecrown, that night at the Argent Tournament, the day
before Arthas died. Moments of their lives combined, when grief
became anger and finally acceptance. Separate existence drawn
together through laughter, shared strength, remembrance of quests
past.

Crais doesn't smile
very often, but when he does she finds herself strangely willing,
captured. Not a Dwarf's gruff honesty, or a Gnome's infectious
enthusiasm... but quiet satisfaction. He stares into her, and she
understands: while the earth may heal her soul, her heart is a
different quantity. Two things joined, yet separate, both tied
together with an unbreakable thread. Mirrie has bound them in life
and death, perhaps tighter than she ever anticipated.

As the sun goes down,
his eyes are the blue sky of a new day: a possibility of promise, the
battle not yet fought.

This debt was not yet
paid.

'The cultist activity
in Stormwind is of genuine interest?'

'It's a front, a
massive deception. There are a lot of very nervous people.'

The desire rises
without prompting, the need to help, to offer her services. She knows
instinctively he won't ask her, but rather wait for her to arrive at
the inevitable. His remarkable ability isn't to push, it is to pull:
to generate understanding, comprehension and finally truth. One's own
conscience is the guide and compass: the decision is theirs.

'I'll need to wait 'til
Pa can hire some extra help.'

'He has two women
coming from Coldridge tomorrow.'

She wants to object,
accuse him of manipulation, but there's no point. He's anticipated
her as he did every time she laid a trap for him to pull an enemy
into. Her father knows her better than she does and so, it appears,
does Crais. Her smile is enough to move him to standing, to offer his
hand. As he helps her up Northrend moves from present to past, as it
was with Outland and Kalimdor. This is a new chapter, a fresh
beginning.

'You would have let me
stay here?'

'Would you have let
yourself remain?'

Time has played tricks
with her for too long, present and past carelessly overlapping.
Perhaps the reasons need not be cataclysmic, the enemy seemingly
unbeatable, for her involvement to be justified. Maybe all she
desired was a friend to ask her for help to protect the earth and
sky, the simplest of gestures meaning more than rewards and glory.

The embrace is a
surprise, deliberate pull towards him she won't resist, because she's
not afraid of him any more. As she stands, wrapped in his warmth,
everything is back in place, leaving simply possibility in its wake.

Looking upwards to the
heavens as the stars emerge, she wonders how just how easy it might
be to join a cult.